


paralian

by parsnipit



Series: mot juste [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alternia Isn't (Too) Terrible and Everyone is Okay, Domestic Fluff, Good Moirail Gamzee Makara, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Pale Porn (Homestuck), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Weird Xenobiological Headcanons, also featuring:, although tbh there's not too much actual kink in this one, and, but it is mentioned, domestic kinky bastards getting their domestic (nonsexual) kink on, that's it that's all it is, two nerds horn-over-heels in love with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Karkat and Gamzee set about constructing their adult hive on a (relatively) peaceful Alternia. Whilst Karkat bickers with a carpenter droid and sets about roofing a greenhouse (the polycarbonate isn't going to hammer itself, damn it), Gamzee goes to work on a brand-new block. (Because clearly, the one thing Karkat Vantas needed in his life was the pale version of a concupiscent sex dungeon.)





	paralian

**Author's Note:**

> paralian: (n) a person who lives by the sea.

“Just—over, yeah, a little bit more—no, not forward, _not—_ ohmygod no that’s the balcony, no no no no—” _Crash!_ That’s the sound your hopes and dreams make, hitting the ground from two stories up. Thank god they’re made of polycarbonate. “Oooh, okay. Fuck, okay. We didn’t need that, that was expendable. Who needs a roof, right? It’s fine. It’s totally fine. No, don’t fucking touch that, just let me—”

You shoo the carpenter droid away from the mess of polycarbonate panels on your back lawn, clicking your teeth irritably at it. It buzzes around you, humming anxiously, until you jab a finger back towards the hive. “Go on, go bring some nails and a hammer. _I’ll_ do this part.”

It whisks itself away on its paper-thin wings, eager to follow your commands. At the same time, a head pops out of your hive’s second-story window. “Best friend?”

You cup a hand over your eyes to shield them from the moonlight, squinting up at Gamzee. “What?” you ask, maybe just a little bit more crankily than you meant to. What can you say? Carpenter droids rub you the wrong fucking way, all brawn and no brain.

“You good?” Gamzee asks, cocking his head. “Ain’t nothin’ got dropped on you?”

“I’m surviving,” you tell him, with an annoyed flick of your tail. “Be better once we get this goddamn greenhouse done.”

“You want help?”

“No, I’ve got it. Finish whatever you’re doing in there first.”

Gamzee grins, propping his chin in his hand. That’s a smug look if ever you’ve seen one. “You’re gonna liiiike what all I’m doin’ in here, brother, just you motherfuckin’ wait.”

You snort, but hell, you actually believe him. He knows what you like—a consequence of being moirails for nearly three sweeps. “Yeah, yeah—I’ll like it more if you can get it done fast.”

Gamzee wrinkles up his nose, clearly taking that as a personal challenge, before ducking back inside. You roll your eyes (just a _tad_ fondly) before turning back to the polycarbonate panels and dragging them towards the frame of your greenhouse. The droid helps you onto the roof’s rafters, and you magnanimously allow it to assist you by delivering more nails when you need them. You hammer the panels into place, listening to the distant thump of weird clown rap as it emanates from your hive. You smash your fingers more than once with the hammer, and get in a solid practice session with your most creative expletives as a result, but the finished product is worth it, you think.

As soon as the panels are in place, you hop off of the greenhouse roof (a feat you wish Dave had been around to see—he always whistles at you when you do Cool Troll Shit like jumping from high places) and dust yourself off. You meander through the greenhouse, surveying your work with a critical eye. The door opens smoothly on its hinges, closes and locks securely behind you. The panels are all steady and well-aligned, and the air is thick with the smell of fresh-cut wood and sawdust. The shelves are clean and sturdy, albeit empty as of yet, and the pale stone flooring feels natural (but not _too_ rocky) underneath your shoes.

Basically, it’s perfect. (You only hope Gamzee thinks the same.)

You use the water hose to wash the sweat and sawdust from your face and arms, then toe your shoes off as you step into the hive. The whole place stinks of droid-musk and construction work, but the actual hive itself has been completed for a few nights, now. You and Gamzee (and your one lone, remaining carpenter droid) have spent those past few nights moving all of your things inside and attempting to organize them. It’s—difficult, to say the least. Your palemate and you are very different trolls, and trying to cram your lifestyles together is a unique challenge. You wouldn’t trade it for anything, though. You wouldn’t trade _him_ for anything.

As Gamzee continues to do whatever-the-fuck he’s doing to the spare block upstairs (he balked when you asked this evening, told you it was a _motherfuckin’ surprise,_ best friend), you busy yourself unpacking the last few boxes of your things. You unpack a few of Gamzee’s things, too, putting them in the block you think they’ll belong in, though you’ll leave the actual placements to him. Art supplies to the studio, baking supplies to the nutritionblock, abhorrently colorful clown-cult posters to his respiteblock.

Even once you’re through the very last box, though, you haven’t found your piling things—which is _bullshit,_ because you were careful to pack every last bit. Everything _in_ that pile meant something to you, and if you can’t find it you might have a tiny (i.e. enormous) mental breakdown. (Not to mention, all your, er— _kinkier_ shit was in that box, too. Its loss is less sentimental and more extremely humiliating.)

“Gamzee?” you shout, stomping up the stairs. (So new, so little creaking, mm.) “Have you seen our piling shit?”

“Uuuuh—”

You lean against the door to the spare block. You won’t go _in,_ because you’re not mean enough to ruin his surprise, but if you’ve lost your pile you want to be near your palemate when you decisively flip your shit. _“Uh?_ It’s kind of a yes or no answer, Gam—”

“Then yeeees?” Gamzee hazards, ducking out of the block and smiling sheepishly at you. You headbutt his chest. You know, affectionately, because you’re an idiot and you love him. He ruffles your hair, bending down to knock your foreheads together. “Don’t worry, best friend. Got our piling shit all squared away safe and proper-like.”

“Good,” you say, basking a little bit in the relief that brings. “Where’d you put it? I haven’t seen it in any of the blocks.”

He presses his finger over his mouth. There’s pale gray paint at the tip of his claw, a splatter on his shirt. “Shhh. Shit’s a motherfuckin’ secret. We all tight-lipped up in this bitch.”

You arch your eyebrows, look pointedly at the door behind him. That is most definitely where your pile resides now. “Okay, okay, keep your nasty little secrets—are you almost done, though?” You lean up on your toes, prop your chin on his shoulder and nuzzle against his wiry hair. You are the neediest palemate, it is you. “I wanna show you the greenhouse.”

“I can see it from the window, and I tell you what, it’s the prettiest motherfuckin’ greenhouse a brother ever laid ocular on,” Gamzee assures you, rubbing your back. You hum appreciatively, squirming closer. Maybe if you can convince him to pile you, he’ll _have_ to take you into the spare block and then you’ll know what the fuck he’s working on.

“But I wanna show you the insiiiide,” you whine, like the grown-up, adult, very mature troll you are (not).

Gamzee laughs, and you stretch up just a _little_ bit higher to nip his ear in retribution. “Alright, alright, brother. Just a few minutes more and I’ll close up shop, how’s about that? Then you can take me on a tour of that bad-ass greenhouse what you got put together, and _I’ll_ show you the bitchtits shit I’ve been workin’ on in here. Deal?”

“Deal,” you agree, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw so he’ll turn his head just a little bit further and—yep, there he goes, scent-marking your hair with a happy little chitter. You pap his side and wait for him to finish before drawing back, giving him a stern look. “A few minutes and I expect to see you outside, Mr. Makara.”

Gamzee blows you a kiss as you turn towards the stairs, grinning. “By all means, my badass lil’ threshecutioner. Feel free to get your motherfuckin’ punishment on if I’m not.”

Somehow, you think his idea of _punishment_ might be more of an incentive than a warning. Nevertheless, you trot downstairs with a warm flutter in your stomach—and, as promised, a few minutes later Gamzee meets you outside the greenhouse. You snag his hand and lead him inside, and he ooohs and aaahs at all the right moments, especially when you point out your hand-constructed ceiling panels.

“I can’t wait to get shit motherfuckin’ growing in here,” he admits with a wistful little sigh, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You lean into him, chittering contentedly. “Got any ideas for the first crop? Most the fruits and veggies oughta be hardy enough to grow outside come dim season, but we can start ‘em in here.”

“We could keep the herbs here,” you suggest, winding your arm around his waist and scratching his side in little circles. He stretches leisurely, humming low in his chest. “Start some annual flowers early next spring, maybe.”

“We’ll have the prettiest motherfuckin’ garden for miles around, that’s for sure.”

“The _only_ garden for miles around.”

“Details, details,” Gamzee teases, guiding you back outside. He leaves the door propped open to air out the droid-and-sawdust scent, then takes hold of your hand again and tugs you along towards the front lawn. “C’mon—let’s go for a walk afore the sun rises, huh?”

“Wait—I thought you were gonna show me the spare block.” You frown.

“And I will, brother mine, never fear,” he assures you. He tugs gently at your hand again, and you allow him to lead you around the hive. “I’m just lettin’ it ventilate itself out a bit—the paint’s a motherfuckin' noxious odor, I tell you what.”

You whine, because your curiosity is about to make you explode into tiny mutant smithereens, but Gamzee just laughs, the cheeky fucker. The two of you walk out to the front lawn, then through the gate (you’ll need to paint the fencing, soon, but not tonight—tonight’s work is over and done, and you’re ready to rest) and out onto the dark sand. The ocean laps gently against the shore, and Gamzee kneels down at the waterline, reaching out to brush his fingers through the foam the waves leave behind. You stand behind him, eyeing the water warily—living this close to the sea makes you nervous, but for him?

For him, anything.

Gamzee sits his bony ass down in the sand, hugging his knees to his chest. For a second, a morose look flashes across his face, and it is your Solemn Duty as his moirail to cheer him up. “Hey,” you say, kicking his leg gently. “Don’t be sad or I’ll beat you up.” Fucking nailed it.

Gamzee laughs and hugs your leg to him, then drags you clumsily into his lap and squeezes you tight. “How can I be sad when I’ve got such a bitchin’, badass snugglebuddy to keep me company? Not to mention we got this sweet hive, a load of territory all our own, some sicknasty friends what’ll be here come weekend for that hivewarming party. Ain’t _nothin’_ can get me down, best friend.”

For now, you believe him, though you know that’s far from always being the truth (much as he may try to pretend it is; that’s a habit you’ve yet to break him of, but in this case, you can be patient).

You squirm your way into a more comfortable position, settled on the warm sand between Gamzee’s knees and leaned back against his chest. He plays with your hair, humming an aimless little tune (the clown rap, you realize, is still shrieking from the speakers in your hive—thank god you don’t have neighbors around for miles). You watch the sea in front of you, lazy and content. The water always moving, always changing, and sometimes that’s unnerving. On days like this, it's soft and mellow and gentle, but you know how viciously that can change. When the storms roll in, there’s no doubt in your mind that it will lash itself up into something cold and dark and unruly, but—

But, well, you’re brave and badass enough to handle that. You’ve weathered storms before, and you’ll weather them in the future. It’s gonna be okay. You’ve _got_ this. (You’ve got _him.)_ You snuggle back against Gamzee, close your eyes and feel your mouth quirk up in a little smile. Yeah. You’ll be okay, here. _More_ than okay. You’re safe and sound in your own territory, with your moirail at your side and a long future ahead of you both.

“That smile looks good on you, littlest brother,” Gamzee says, nudging your ear. You click quietly, cracking an eye open to look fondly at him. He beams at you, and your belly is full of warmth and clouds and other abhorrently squishy things. For once, you don’t mind.

“Gimme a hint,” you say, reaching up to twirl one of his curls around your claw.

“A hint?”

“Yeah. About what you’ve done to our spare block.”

“What, the pile wasn’t hint e-motherfuckin’-nough?” he asks, leaning into your hand. You obligingly scratch behind his ear, watching it flick happily as you do, his fins fanning themselves out for your attention. Cute-ass fucking highblood. “Aight, aight—uuum—” He squirms, wrinkling up his nose as he concentrates. “We’ve talked about it before.”

“Have we?”

“Mm-hm, just after we got that bitchtits idea to move in together—you said you’d be all for it,” Gamzee tells you, and you—well, you remember a _few_ conversations like that. When he’d told you about the greenhouse, the studio, the enormous fucking kitchen, the little place by the sea, the—oh. _Oh._

“You _didn’t,”_ you say accusingly, your face suddenly hot.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” Gamzee says blithely, scratching his chin. “I forget, brother.”

“Oh no you do _not—”_ You hop to your feet, tugging on his horn to get him to follow you up. “C’mon, show me, _show me—”_

Gamzee laughs, climbing to his feet and dusting sand off of his pants. You seize his chilly fingers in yours and march right back to your hive, pausing only to kick your shoes off in the foyer before plunging upstairs. You're practically vibrating with excitement (or nerves, maybe it’s nerves—), because if he’s turned this block into what you _think_ he’s turned this block into, you are a broken troll. You know you’d talked about it, and you’d been interested and he’d been interested, and the theft of your piling supplies left you with a sneaking suspicion, but you didn’t think—

You didn’t think he’d actually _do_ it. You didn’t think he’d actually want to put so much time and effort into something silly like that with—with _you._ Not because of him, of course. Gamzee is nothing if not attentive and sweet and willing to bend over backwards to meet your every need, and he loves you, you _know_ he loves you, there’s just—always that little spark of self-loathing, you suppose, always that little voice that whispers _you’re not good enough_ and _you don’t deserve this_ and—

You cut yourself off, grinding your teeth anxiously as you freeze in front of the spare block. This is his surprise, so you’ll let him lead the way in, you’ll let him offer it to you like the gift it is, you’ll—

Gamzee reaches forward, opens the door, and goes, “Tada!”

The block isn’t quite finished—you can tell that right off. There’s still plastic lain down over the carpet and furniture to prevent paint-splatters, and the paint-scent, despite Gamzee’s effort at ventilation time, lingers in the air. The walls and ceiling are pale gray, the baseboard and window sills done up in crisp white. The carpet (or what you can make out of it beneath the plastic, anyhow) appears to be soft beige. Neutral colors, gentle colors, calm colors (piling colors).

“Not quite done painting,” Gamzee offers hastily, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his tail curling around his leg. “Just got the first couple coats on, base colors—rest’ll be put up soon, though. Tomorrow night, if everything’s all dried up proper. Look better once all the plastic’s gone, too, I mean—”

You pap your hand absently across his mouth, still too busy gaping. Beneath the plastic, you can make out the furniture he’s moved into the block. Two big, cozy-looking beige armchairs, complete with throw-blankets—one in lilac and one in pale rose. A little white dresser in the corner, with framed pictures you can’t quite make out through the opaque vagueness of the plastic. (You’ve got a tingling idea about what’s _in_ that dresser, though.) Against the far wall, a black hammock big enough for both you. Then, on the right-hand side of the block, the floor rises slightly and the ceiling dips drastically to meet it, creating a cozy little divet in the wall. It reminds you of a cave, secure and blocked in on three sides, with a gentle sloping entrance, and inside—

Inside is your pile, every little bit, from romcom cases to bicycle horns to empty greasepaint containers, soft fleece blankets and fuzzy red and purple pillows, old t-shirts and frayed jackets and perfectly lumpy beanbags. That’s it, then. This is a pileblock, well and truly.

Normal trolls keep their piles in their respiteblocks, of course, and that’s just what the two of you had done up until this point, but you’d mentioned, off-handedly, that it would be _so_ much easier to keep everything you needed for piling (which usually consists of much more than a simple pile, you kinky fuckers, you) in one block, instead of scattered between your hives and various blocks and sylladexes. Of course, a pileblock isn’t something trolls with an ordinary piling-life have, and yet here you are, caught at the claws of your voracious and insatiable pale appetite, and you—

You are so fucking _happy._

Naturally, your dumbass body decides to express this by bursting into tears.

Gamzee makes a frantic noise, papping your shoulders and head desperately while you bury your face into your palms. “Oh no, oh, I’m sorry, no, I’m so sorry, best friend, please—”

You squish him in the tightest hug you can, shaking your head furiously. “No, don’t be sorry, don’t you dare—it’s _beautiful,_ Gamzee, it’s fucking perfect—”

He hugs you back, kissing you between your horns. He’s tense and uncertain against you, his tail still tucked and coiled tightly around his own leg. “You’re not—upset?”

You shake your head again, sniffling adamantly. “Absolutely not. I’m just so—I’m—” You ball your fists up, frustrated with how difficult it is to put words to your emotions. Gamzee sets a hand on yours, coaxes your fingers to relax again. He shooshes you: a low, steady sigh from deep in his chest, and you breathe. “I’m happy. I’m really, really happy. Thank you.” You push up on your toes, press your nose to his. _“Thank you.”_

He relaxes slightly, resting his forehead against yours with a little sigh of relief. “Messiahs, you’re welcome, beloved. Anything for you. You—like it? For serious?”

You nod earnestly, cupping his face in your hands, tracing your thumbs along the line of his paint beneath his eyes. “I love it, you asshole. You’re the best, you know that?”

His grin is big enough to squeeze his eyes shut, and he threads up a gorgeous purr for you.

“There’s only one thing left to do tonight, right?” you ask, smoothing your thumb over a silky purple fin. It flicks eagerly towards you, and you chirr low in your throat.

“Yeah?” Gamzee asks, cracking an eye open and nuzzling earnestly into your palm. “What’s that, motherfucker?”

“Well,” you say, tugging him towards the pile, the plastic crinkling beneath your feet, “we have to anoint it, don’t we?”

Gamzee’s eyes snap open, then settle into a pleased, half-lidded look as he lets you lead him along. “I figure for sure enough you’re right about that,” he says.

You shove the plastic aside, burrowing into your little cave—it’s wider inside than it is at the entrance, and you chirr in delight when you realize this, kneading the pillows beneath your claws as Gamzee slips in after you. It’s big enough for both of you to sprawl out, big enough that you’ll probably _still_ be able to sprawl out, even after Gamzee reaches his full growth. (And you’ll have him at full growth, won’t you? You’ll have him from now on, for forever.)

Gamzee flops down next to you, opening his arms for you. You settle down against his chest, bury your face into the crook of his neck and thread your fingers into his hair. Your claws tease over the skin around the bases of his horns, and his chest vibrates with the force of his purr. “Let’s get to anointing, then, shall we?” he rumbles, settling his own fingers around your horns. You spend the rest of the night (and a good portion of the day, truth be told) anointing your new pileblock to hell and back, and there’s not a single thing you would have rather done. You get the feeling you're _really_ going to like this new hive.


End file.
